


Around The World In 80 Letters

by AFarFetchedPlot



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Adlock, F/M, Kinda Fluff... I guess..., Pen Pals, Reluctant Pen Pal on Sherlock's Part
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-23
Updated: 2015-03-23
Packaged: 2018-03-19 06:52:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3600429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AFarFetchedPlot/pseuds/AFarFetchedPlot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock receives a mysterious letter from a character from his past</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> First posted on fanfiction.net (same pen name)
> 
> This story got away with me somewhat... Particularly the second chapter, but... Yeah :P Hope you enjoy ^-^

Sherlock hadn’t thought anything of it when the letter had arrived on the doorstep. It was a fairly nondescript envelope with his name and address carefully written on the front in an elegant hand. _Female. Right-handed. Well-educated. Used a fountain pen, not a biro; suggests well-brought up. Confident in herself, yet hesitant to send the letter. Which would mean…_

“Client,” he murmured to himself, tone dismissive as he dropped the letter onto the cluttered desk and picked up his violin. “Boring.” Placing the bow on the strings, he had closed his eyes and began to play, the very existence of the letter having already been deleted from his ‘hard drive’.

When John came back a few hours later, however, it was one of the first things he noticed.

“Post’s been then?” Sherlock simply grunted in reply, balancing his skull on his chest, his fingers templed beneath his chin,

“Anything interesting?”

“No,” the Consulting Detective said languidly, his tone almost sleepy, as though he wasn’t really listening. Which he probably wasn’t, John reminded himself as he picked up the envelope  and squinted at the post mark.

“It’s from America!” he exclaimed, surprised, as he glanced at Sherlock, gaze quizzical.

“Fascinating…”

“Who’d want to talk to you from America?”

“A client.”

“From _America_?!”

“Thanks to your… Blog I’m… What was it Lestrade said? ‘An internet phenomenon’.” The disdain was clear in his tone as he continued; “It’s entirely possible someone has heard of me and now wants my help with their mediocre problems. Tedious.” Closing his eyes, he settled back on the sofa again, voice softening and becoming more reflective as he sunk back into his thoughts.

John, however, was not so quick to dismiss the letter; it had piqued his interest, and he was damned if he was going to ignore it just because Sherlock was being a moody git. Picking up the envelope, he opened it, pulling out the single folded sheet inside and releasing a faint, lingering perfume which seemed half-familiar…  Curiosity well and truly aroused now, John was about to open the letter itself when Sherlock barked at him.

“ _Wait_.” Pausing, fingers itching to find out who the letter was from, John glanced at his friend, both perplexed and bemused at his sudden shift in attitude.

“What?”

Not bothering to respond, Sherlock simply got to his feet, the skull tumbling to the floor, forgotten; his entire attention was now focused solely on the letter clutched in John’s hand. Moving forwards, he plucked the paper from John’s grasp, ignoring his protests and feeble attempts to get the letter back. Now it was in his own hands, the faint scent he’d perceived when John had opened the envelope became much more obvious, and a small part of his mind marvelled at the fact he hadn’t noticed it before. He remembered the smell of course; how could he not? Yet he daren’t let himself get carried away; just because _he_ associated that particular perfume with her, that didn’t mean it was… _Her_. It could still be a client.

Opening the folded paper, however, chased the final faint doubt from his mind. It was her. The Woman…

The letter was extremely short, more of a note than anything; it wasn’t addressed to anyone, nor had she signed it. But he knew.

_Let’s have dinner._

“Well?” John asked, by now almost exploding with curiosity. “Who was it from? A client?”

“No,” Sherlock said slowly, folding the letter and slipping it into the pocket of his dressing gown.

“Then who was it? Sherlock?”

“Envelope,” was all Sherlock said, expression vaguely thoughtful as he held his hand out to John. For a moment, a small, childish part of John wanted to keep hold of the envelope until Sherlock told him, but with a sigh, he handed it over, watching as Sherlock put that in his dressing gown pocket too and disappeared in the direction of his room.

Shutting the door on John’s curiosity and the questions he so obviously wanted to ask, Sherlock pulled the letter and envelope from his pocket again, studying them both. The postmark was from Chicago, so Irene had clearly gone to America after Karachi… He couldn’t help but admire her nerve at that; while it was undoubtedly the obvious choice, it was also dangerous. He doubted very much whether the American Government would be forgiving towards the woman who had helped foil their neatly laid plans. Still, that was Irene Adler all over; he’d never known her to willingly back away from danger. It had undoubtedly almost been her downfall.

Dropping onto the bed with a soft sigh, he read the short note again. _Let’s have dinner…_ Absurd. Just like those texts she used to send him. Yet he found himself, much to his annoyance, and in spite of his determination to ignore it, wondering whether she’d write to him again…


	2. Chapter 2

His answer came four days later with another letter, this time from New York.

_Did you miss me?_

Sensing John’s obvious curiosity, Sherlock was careful to keep his expression as blank and unreadable as usual, though he caught himself smiling for no discernable reason several times throughout the day, which both puzzled and annoyed him. _Absurd_.

Almost a month passed before the next letter arrived; by then the smiles had gone and Sherlock had once more descended into his usual destructive bouts of boredom. After getting kicked out of Scotland Yard by an irritated Greg, Sherlock had quickly torn the flat apart in search of some cigarettes, before conducting several noxious smelling experiments in the kitchen. He was desperate to find something, _anything_  to take his mind off his endless _waiting_ , and even briefly considered his secret stash, but things weren’t quite _that_ desperate yet.

He tried telling himself that it wasn’t even certain that she _would_ write again, but that made things worse if anything, and resulted in several new burn holes in Mrs Hudson’s curtains. It wasn’t only inanimate objects who felt the full force of Sherlock’s frustration, as Mycroft discovered when he’d paid the inhabitants of 221B a visit and had had the contents of his brother’s current experiment (the effect of common household detergents on blood coagulation) thrown over his _rather expensive_ tailored suit. The act itself he could probably have accepted, given time, but Sherlock’s dogged insistence of photographing the stains the congealed blood had left (in the name of science, naturally) he definitely couldn’t, and John wouldn’t have been surprised if Mycroft never spoke to them again.

The phone call from Greg was, therefore, a welcome distraction for all concerned.

“Look, Sherlock, I don’t know who the bloody hell you’re talking to in America, but can you tell them we’re not a bloody post office?” Greg’s irate tone washed over Sherlock, cutting through the fug of boredom and impatience as he focused on the one important word Lestrade had said.

“America?”

“Yeah. Arizona or something. But that’s not the point! Sherlock, you can’t-“

“Thank you, Lestrade,” he interrupted smoothly. “I’ll be right there.” Hanging up, he’d grabbed his coat and was out of the door before John had had a chance to do more than open his mouth to ask what Greg had wanted.

“Sherlock?” Cursing softly under his breath, John had quickly followed his friend, only just managing to reach the taxi Sherlock had flagged down as he pulled the door shut. Slipping inside too, he glanced at Sherlock before looking away again as they drove off. “You want to tell me why we’re going to Scotland Yard?”

“ _I’m_ going to see Lestrade. What you do with your time is entirely up to you.”

“Is this about a case?”

“No.”

John nodded slowly, trying to stay calm as he felt anger and irritation flare up in him at Sherlock’s manner.

“We going to talk about this?”

“Talk about what, exactly?”

“You. The way you’ve been acting. Ever since that _bloody_ letter from America which you won’t talk about.”

“Nothing to discuss.”

“Nothing to- Sherlock, you almost burnt the bloody flat down! And Mycroft is either going to ignore us or make our lives a misery now! And don’t,” he added angrily as a faint smirk flitted across Sherlock’s face. “Don’t treat it like a bloody joke. _Why_ won’t you talk about this stuff? What’s going on?”

“ _Nothing_ is going on, and that is precisely why Mrs Hudson’s curtains suffered.”

“And Mycroft?”

Sherlock smirked, a very faint grin playing about his lips. “Oh, Mycroft was asking for it. I should have done it _years_ ago.” His grin faded and he glanced out of the window, tone disinterested once more. “I was simply bored, John; I didn’t have anything to do. I’d have thought you’d be used to it by now.”

They spent the rest of the ride in silence, and arriving at Scotland Yard, Sherlock thrust some money at the driver as he sprang from the taxi without bothering to wait for John. Arriving at Lestrade’s office, he breezed in, not troubling himself to knock, startling the Detective Inspector who had just been about to start eating his usual mid-morning snack; a doughnut.

“Letter," Sherlock demanded.

“Bloody hell that was quick…” Lestrade gazed at Sherlock in surprise as he burst into the room. “Where’s John?”

“ _Letter_.”

“Ok, ok. Keep your hair on.” Licking the sugar from his fingers, Greg pulled open a drawer and handed Sherlock the envelope just as John appeared, breathing hard, face full of thunder. “Talk of the devil… Morning, John. Wondered where he left you. You ok…?” Nodding even though his expression was murderous, John collapsed onto a chair as he attempted to get his breath back.

Sherlock meanwhile, had wasted no time in tearing open the envelope. Quickly reading the note, which was slightly longer than usual, he felt himself still, heart thumping painfully as he read and re-read her words.

 _And you thought I’d forgotten about you, Mr Holmes, didn’t you? No such luck, I’m afraid; you’re a difficult man to forget. Unfortunately. I simply ran into some trouble with some_ charming _men who were quite adamant I should go with them. It took a little longer than expected to shake them off. Sending this one via your Inspector; even letters can be traced and I wouldn’t want to draw attention to myself now, would I?_  
Have you ever visited Arizona? You should; the Grand Canyon is exquisite. Nothing like the power of nature to put things into perspective.  
Bored in a hotel. Hop on a plane and join me. Let’s have dinner. 

“Sherlock?” Noticing the paper still clutched in his hand for the first time, John groaned. “It is, isn’t it? It’s another _bloody_ letter from your mystery friend! Only you know I’ve been getting suspicious about it, so you asked them to send the letters to _Greg_!”

“I didn’t tell them to write here,” Sherlock murmured distractedly, moving to the window to inspect the paper the letter had been written on more carefully.

_Cheap paper, the same found in budget hotels the world over. Biro used instead of fountain pen this time; she didn’t have the time to write this one as carefully as the others. Slight smudges on some words. Even the handwriting wasn’t as calm or confident as before; whatever had happened had shaken her…_

Coming to this realisation, Sherlock had to fight a sudden, irrational desire to catch the next flight to the States and find Irene, to make sure she was _safe_. The strength of this impulse shocked him, but try as he might he couldn’t shake it; he didn’t really want to consider what could have happened to affect The Woman this much, and the mere suggestion that she could have been hurt shook him more deeply than he would have cared to admit. It took all of his self-control to remain outwardly calm and unconcerned as usual as he carefully folded up the letter and stowed it in his coat pocket. His hands were shaking, a small, detached part of his mind noted, and he quickly shoved them into his pockets too. Turning back to John and Lestrade, it became clear they’d continued talking during his re-examination of the letter and were waiting for some sort of response; shrugging slightly, he arched an eyebrow, glancing between the two of them.

“You… Haven’t been listening to a _bloody_ word we’ve been saying, have you?”

“I was thinking.”

“ You were-!“

“Bad news?” Greg asked, interrupting the near apoplectic John and nodding in the direction of the pocket which contained the letter. He started to nod, but after a slight pause, Sherlock slowly shook his head, the tremor in his hands fading as the logical part of his brain reasserted itself, overriding the emotion which had flooded his body just moments before.

 _She still wrote the letter, she still_ posted _it. If she had time to post the letter, she must be fine; Irene wasn’t an idiot. That would account for the delay between letters. She would put her own safety before some_ note _to him…_

_Wouldn’t she?_

God, he hoped she would…

Shaking off the doubts, he glanced at Greg, who was now looking thoroughly confused.

“No. Not bad news.” He turned to leave, clearly not intending to elaborate any further, before he paused. “Thank you,” Sherlock said quickly, before clearing his throat and nodding once. “For letting me know about the letter.”

A look of utter shock flashed across Greg’s face, leaving him staring open-mouthed at Sherlock.

“You’re… You’re welcome,” he stammered eventually, still gob-smacked. “Though, it  _was_ addressed to you, so we couldn’t actually-“

“Irrelevant,” Sherlock interrupted as he waved Greg’s words away, his usual demeanour resurfacing once more. “Oh, and there might be some more letters arriving-“

“ _What_?!”

“So pass those onto me the minute you receive them as well.”

“Now, Sherlock,” Lestrade began, frowning.

“Let me know if there are any developments.”

With that, he swept from the room, leaving an annoyed Greg and a resigned John, whose earlier anger had slowly seeped away; the usual brusque Sherlock was clearly back, and John was just grateful for that. _That_ Sherlock he could deal with. Moping Sherlock, he definitely couldn’t. He just wished he knew why those damn letters had such an effect on his friend…

“You know… I almost think he’s gotten _worse_ ,” Greg groaned, chuckling weakly, torn between exasperation and bemusement. “I didn’t think that was possible…”

“Yeah, tell me about it,” John agreed, laughing a little. “Thanks Greg.”

“Oh, don’t mention it. I mean, it’s all part of the service, isn’t it? ‘The Metropolitan Police; Fighting Crime and Delivering Post Since 1829.”

Laughing, John raised his hand in farewell as he followed Sherlock out of the office. 


	3. Chapter 3

A steady stream of letters continued to arrive at irregular intervals over the next few months for Sherlock. Most came via Baker Street, but Lestrade received another couple as well, providing endless amusement for the officers at the station, and Sherlock had to suffer a multitude of sniggered comments about the identity of the letter writer and their relationship with Sherlock. Outwardly at least, Sherlock appeared to ignore the not so subtle whispers about love letters (An _idiotic_ idea naturally. Why would he waste time with something so needlessly _dull_?), and apart from an _extremely_ faint blush which stained his cheeks at the thought of Irene writing him a love letter, he managed to keep his composure and carry on as though nothing had changed.

Which wasn’t _strictly_ true… Although externally nothing about him had changed, inwardly there was _chaos_. He found it hard to believe how much of an effect the presence or absence of an _envelope_ could have, and if he hadn’t been so frustrated by the whole thing he would have found this chance to study the effects of sentiment on intellect mildly interesting. He didn’t know how she’d done it, but Sherlock had discovered that his mood for the rest of the day was now more or less dependent on the arrival of the postman.

On those days where there was no post for 221B, or just the usual _tedious_ bills and letters he left John to deal with, Sherlock found himself scowling at all and sundry, withdrawing into himself until John was lucky to get two words out of him.

When a letter from _her_ arrived, however, the scowls were replaced with faint smiles and deliberately blank expressions in an attempt to maintain his habitual cool façade. And while John wouldn’t say that the arrival of a letter made Sherlock _happy_ exactly (he’d yet to see anything short of a murder which could do that), it certainly made him a hell of a lot easier to live with.

If anyone had asked Sherlock, he would have said that the letters helped to alleviate his boredom by providing a form of distraction; the letters were from all over the world and he almost made a game out of trying to guess where the next letter would come from. Pointless, undoubtedly, as he’d be the first to admit, but mildly diverting as well. And while this was undoubtedly true, it wasn’t the _whole_ truth. Although he didn’t examine the reasons behind it too closely, the simple fact was that Sherlock liked knowing where she’d been, liked seeing snapshots from her journey around the world.

And what a journey it had been…

From Arizona, she had travelled to South America, visiting Peru, Chile and Argentina; he’d received a letter from each.

**_Lima, Peru:_** _  
New continent, new identity, new_ me _. I wonder what you would make of me blonde, Mr Holmes?_

_That_ had caused John to endure an unpleasant afternoon of Sherlock’s scowls and sulks as his memories of Irene battled with new images of her _blonde_. He hadn’t approved of the subsequent mental picture, and it had put him in a foul mood, much to John’s annoyance.

**_Santiago, Chile:_** _  
Contrary to popular belief, Mr Holmes,_ brunettes _have more fun._  
_Bored in a hotel. Come find me. Let’s have dinner…_

**_Buenos Aires, Argentina:_** _  
I’m almost beginning to miss how repressed the British are; it makes the game that much more_ fun _.  
Speaking of repressed, how_ is _Mycroft? I trust the British Government is keeping well?_

Her journey had become much more erratic and harder to predict from there, which Sherlock could only approve of; he hadn’t spent all that time and effort rescuing her from Karachi to have her throw it all away because she wasn’t _thinking_. Although there was a part of him, albeit an extremely small part, which almost wanted her to get caught, just so he could stage another rescue. It would appear Mycroft had been right and that Sherlock had a weakness for ‘Damsels in distress’.

Or perhaps just one damsel in particular…

_Not_ that he would ever admit to such a thing. No. Sherlock would never acknowledge any weakness of his own if he could help it. But that didn’t mean that it wasn’t there, niggling at the back of his mind.

_Sentiment…_ He  knew it would prove to be a disadvantage.

**_Victoria City, Hong Kong:_ ** _  
I saw a Businessman today. He reminded me of you. I think it was the cheekbones._

**_Dhaka, Bangladesh:_** _  
What are you thinking about_ right now _? Just what is going on in that big, sexy brain of yours?_

**_Cairo, Egypt:_** _  
Stuck with another, boring businessman. What has happened to all the_ interesting _men?_  
_Hop on a plane and join me. Cairo looks beautiful in the moonlight. Let’s have dinner_

**_Paris, France:_ **

The sight of that postmark caused his heart to give a slight skip as he read it, and he frowned. _Ridiculous_. As was the small inner voice which had voiced the hope that she might visit. But that idea was not only absurd, it was reckless. She couldn’t visit, _shouldn’t_ visit. Not if she wanted to stay safe. Shaking off those thoughts ( _why_ should he care anyway?), he turned his attention back to the letter instead, which was shorter than usual.

_Beginning to agree with Dorothy._

“Who’s Dorothy?” Startled, John glanced up at Sherlock.

“I’m sorry?”

“Who is Dorothy?” Sherlock repeated, enunciating clearly as he flicked his gaze to John.

“How should I know…?” His friend asked slowly, completely baffled. “What’s the context?” Sherlock hesitated for a moment, before reluctantly handing over the letter, his piercing blue gaze never leaving John. Confusion quickly shifting to surprise, the doctor took the note and scanned it eagerly. Reading it, however, didn’t make _anything_ clearer. They hadn’t even signed their name for Christ’s sake…

“Well?” Sherlock’s impatience was clear, and clearing his throat, John thrust thoughts of the mystery writer aside. At least for the moment.

“Well… The only Dorothy who springs to mind, assuming your… friend’s not referring to one of your acquaintances, is Dorothy from the Wizard of Oz.” His flat mate simply looked blank, an eyebrow arched expectantly at John. “Dorothy? Owns a black dog called Toto? From Kansas? Ruby slipper, killing the witches… None of this ringing a bell?”

“It’s _irrelevant_.”

“Like the Solar System?”

_“ Yes_,” the Consulting Detective replied dismissively, taking the letter back and gazing at the single line with a faint frown. “Now, what does this character have to do with _this_?”

“Well…” John scratched his nose and shrugged. “I’m not sure… Only thing I can think of is that quote. ‘There’s no place like home.’”

“What?” Suddenly alert, Sherlock narrowed his eyes a little as he gazed at John.

“That’s what Dorothy says in ‘The Wizard of Oz’. ‘There’s no place like home’.” Taking a sharp breath, Sherlock slowly released it, eyes widening in understanding.

“ _Oh_.”

“Sounds like your friend’s missing home. Wherever that is.” _And whoever they are_ John added silently. “Where’s that one from anyway?”

“Paris.”

“That close?” He watched Sherlock carefully for a minute, curiosity and good manners warring within him for a moment. Curiosity won, and he quickly added; “Do you think they’ll come and visit?”

“No,” came the short reply, and folding the letter, Sherlock slipped it into his pocket, picked up his violin and began tuning it. The conversation was over.

**_Moratuwa, Sri Lanka:_ ** _  
The countryside here is very picturesque. You should visit. Let’s have dinner._

**_Pakse, Laos:  
_**_I’m disappointed you didn’t wear your deerstalker the last time we met. I’d have liked to see you in that_ ridiculous _hat one last time._

“Do you ever reply?”

“Reply…?” Sherlock hadn’t even bothered to glance up at the question; he’d been expecting one like it for a while and had been fleetingly surprised John had resisted asking it for so long.

“To the letters.”

“No.”

**_Venice, Italy:_**  
_You’d like it here. It’s busy, but peaceful; it feels a little like stepping back in time. I met a violin maker yesterday who showed me around his workshop. I think the two of you would have gotten on well._  
 _Or perhaps not; it depends whether or not you’re a jealous man. He was hardly_ subtle…

Despite their mundane topics and the brevity of the notes, Sherlock found himself learning a little more about Irene Adler, the _real_ Irene Adler he’d first glimpsed in the living room of 221B. And these small insights into The Woman merely intrigued and frustrated him further. He didn’t fully understand her, and he _hated_ not understanding…

And still the letters kept arriving.

**_Geneva, Switzerland:_** _  
All this bureaucracy is rather wearing. What happened to good old-fashioned_ bribery _?_  
_I’m not hungry. Let’s have dinner._

**_Al Bahah, Saudi Arabia:_ ** _  
Apparently I am worth 20 camels. What do you think, Mr Holmes? Would you pay that much for me?_

**_Budapest, Hungary:  
_ ** _Sending you a gift, Mr Holmes. Think of it as a belated Christmas present._

That was the last letter he received for almost two weeks, and in that time Sherlock had managed to drive himself and everyone around him, mad. Again. His formidable mind wouldn’t stop puzzling over the possible forms her _present_ could take. A hundred ideas streamed through his head in the fortnight of silence from Irene, each more ludicrous than the last. Withdrawing further into himself, it wasn’t until the arrival of the final letter that he seemed to re-join the real world once more.

Unlike the others, this letter had been hand-delivered; no address or postmark marred this envelope, just his name in her now familiar, elegant hand. Narrowing his eyes slightly as Mrs Hudson passed it to him he had stared at it for a heartbeat – could _this_ be his present…? – before ripping the envelope open. The only thing it had contained was a note of one word.

_Doorstep._


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock frowned down at the single word for several long seconds ( _Doorstep?_ What game was she playing now?) before he side-stepped the twittering Mrs Hudson and made his way quickly downstairs, possibilities and half-formed ideas flashing in quick succession through his mind. Reaching the front door he wrenched it open…

And stopped, perplexed.

This… Was his _present…_?

A woman stood with her back to him, a small overnight bag at her feet. Her conker brown hair cascaded round her shoulders in loose curls, standing out against the simple elegance of her fitted cream coat. At the sound of the front door opening she had turned towards him, but it wasn’t until his gaze, now holding more than a hint of confusion, met hers that he finally recognised the woman. Or rather, _The_ Woman…

Eyes narrowing even as his heart rate increased (a natural reaction, surely; her being in London was dangerous, and Mycroft had eyes everywhere. Nothing to do with the fact she’d chosen to visit him. No. Definitely not), he all but glared at the woman.

“What are you doing here?”

“And hello to you too, Mr Holmes.” A faint smile playing about her lips, Irene raised an eyebrow at him. “How _delightful_ to see you again.” Waving away the social niceties, he scowled at her.

“Answer the question.”

“I came to visit.”

“Why?”

Her smile broadening at his question, she took a small step closer, amusement dancing in her piercing grey gaze.

“You’re an intelligent man, Mr Holmes. Why do you _think_?”

“It’s not safe for you here.” Rolling her eyes at that, she picked up her bag, her expression part exasperation, part determination.

“I’m as safe _here_ as I am anywhere. Besides,” she added as she stepped past him into the hall. “Here has one advantage over the other places I have visited recently.”

“Oh?” Sherlock kept very still as she moved past him, fighting the very strong impulse to close his eyes as the scent of her perfume, which had become more and more familiar with the arrival of each new envelope, all of which retained a trace of the scent, washed over him. Enveloped in the spicy, intoxicating _elegant_ tones of her perfume, he found the violin piece he had written for her called to the front of his mind with startling clarity, the soaring notes echoing eerily through his thoughts. Yet, despite the turmoil her sudden appearance had caused, he managed to maintain his habitual cool demeanour and carefully modulated tone. “And what is that?”

Irene paused for a moment, glancing over her shoulder at Sherlock, her gaze flickering quickly over his face.  Although her playful smirk still danced at the outer edges of her lips, her eyes were deadly serious, filled with certainty and another, deeper emotion Sherlock didn’t dare focus on or analyse too closely.

“You.” Giving a small smile, she carried on up the stairs to 221B, leaving Sherlock rooted to the spot for a few frantic heartbeats. _What the-? Him? What kind of an answer was that…?_ Quickly rousing himself, he followed her. _Absurd_. He was being _absurd_. As was she. Clearly her time away had made her deranged.

Reaching the flat, he paused in the doorway, watching with surprise and mild alarm as he saw Irene and Mrs Hudson chattering nineteen to the dozen. The Woman and his landlady…. An unorthodox and frankly disturbing idea. He couldn’t recall them getting along this well last time they’d met…

Shaking his head, he crossed the room, ignoring both of them and dropped into his armchair. Picking up a newspaper he began flicking idly through its pages in an attempt to drown out their incessant talk. He couldn’t help but notice, however, that Irene had developed a subtle, yet distinct, American accent in the three minutes it had taken her to climb the stairs, and several times he heard Mrs Hudson refer to her as ‘Charlotte’. Despite the newspaper, Sherlock found it almost impossible to actually concentrate on the words on the page in front of him, and several times he caught himself sneaking glances at Irene, watching her covertly from behind his paper-shield. To his great irritation, however, she seemed to sense his gaze, a broader and broader smirk spreading across her lips as she flicked her eyes to meet his, an eyebrow arched questioningly. Scowling deeply each time it happened, Sherlock drummed his fingers irritably on his paper as he waited for Mrs Hudson to leave.

After the births and deaths of several civilisations, aeons after Irene had first entered the flat, his landlady finally excused herself, leaving the two of them alone again. Glancing at him with undisguised amusement, Irene shrugged off her coat, draping it over the arm of the sofa as she wandered leisurely around the flat, smiling to herself as she picked up various odds and ends which lay scattered around the flat; remnants of previous cases and experiments.

Sherlock by this time had abandoned all attempts at pretending to read the newspaper and had instead turned his attention to trying to read something _far_ more interesting.

Her.

Fingers steepled beneath his chin, his icy blue gaze followed her steady progress around the room. The removal of her coat had revealed she was wearing an oversized navy blue knitted jumper underneath, which looked suspiciously like it had once belonged to a man. It should have looked ridiculous, and perhaps on someone else it would have, but somehow she managed to pull it off with a natural elegance and an air of confidence. Coupled with a pair of skinny jeans, it left The Woman looking rather more casual and rather less like the Dominatrix he remembered. Except… He supposed she _wasn’t_ the woman he remembered; that incarnation of Irene Adler had died in Karachi... And yet, it was still frustratingly difficult to deduce anything about her. She was an enigma, an endless series of questions, tantalising in their complexity and yet simultaneously devilishly simple. _Impossible Woman…_

“This place really hasn’t changed at _all_.” Her sudden comment, now with no trace of the faint American accent which had been present with Mrs Hudson, startled Sherlock from his fruitless thoughts, and his brow furrowed slightly as he looked at her, meeting her amused grey gaze steadily. “Neither have you for that matter.”

“You sound disappointed.”

“Quite the contrary, Mr Holmes; after finding myself in so many new and strange places lately, it’s rather refreshing to be somewhere _familiar_ after so much change. And not just from my surroundings either,” she added with a small smile as she took the seat opposite him, absently flicking her hair from her eyes as she curled her feet underneath her. Eyes narrowing at the movement, his sharp gaze followed the offending strand of hair as it caught a shaft of wintry sunlight, the lighter brown hues flaring to life.

“I thought you’d said you had gone blonde?” he asked suddenly, tone irritable, almost accusatory. As soon as the question had ghosted from his lips, however, he regretted it, and glanced quickly away, feigning nonchalance even as he inwardly cursed his stupidity at _thinking_ , never mind vocalising such a thought.

Irene smiled at his question, tilting her head to the side slightly as she watched him, seemingly amused by his irritation and discomfort.

“So you _did_ get my letters? I always wondered if they got here…”

“Of course,” he replied dismissively, feeling unaccountably jittery and restless with The Woman in the flat. Perhaps because he hadn’t seen her for so long, perhaps because John wasn’t here this time, or just perhaps because those _damn_ letters had confused him and his mind in ways he’d rather not admit to, but this time… Things  felt different. And Sherlock wasn’t entirely sure he liked it….

Irene, however, seemed blissfully unaware of any such concerns, and looked completely at ease.

“I _was_ blonde, but it really wasn’t working out for me… As I said, ‘Brunettes have more fun’. So I changed. Again. I’ve become rather adept at reinventing myself now.” Though her tone was as light and faintly amused as ever, Sherlock picked up on the faintest undercurrent of tension in her words, an almost wistful quality which belied her casual manner. With a slight shake of her head and a smile, however, the moment had gone; the mask was once more firmly in place. “All you really need is a clever hairdresser and the wherewithal to know how to play any officials you might meet.”

“You mean you need to know ‘what they like’,” he murmured disdainfully, tapping his fingers on the arms of his chair as he watched her carefully.

“Precisely.”

“Hmmm.” Making a non-committal noise, Sherlock got to his feet and moved to the fireplace. Gazing into the mirror at Irene, he remarked, “Hardly an _effective_ disguise, Miss Adler.” Meeting his gaze in the mirror she shrugged.

“You’d be surprised. Besides, your landlady didn’t recognise me.”

“Hardly a _ringing_ endorsement; I doubt whether Mrs Hudson would recognise _me_ if I turned up on her doorstep with dyed hair, and she’s known me for years. Besides, she’s only met you once.”

“And I’ve only met _Mycroft_ once.”

“ _He_ does this sort of thing for a living.”

“Which is what makes this all the more interesting.”

Glaring at her, he turned his back on the mirror, staring intently at her.

“Well, I hope your new identity is a damn-sight better than your disguise. Name?”

“Charlotte-“

“Why?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Why Charlotte?”

“After my sister.” He made a noise of disgust, looking almost disappointed.

“Obvious. Mycroft would be sure to check that.”

“It’s served me well so far.” She paused, eyebrow  arched expectantly at him, looking mildly exasperated. “May I continue?” Rolling his eyes, he nodded, waving her on. “Thank you. Charlotte Norton.”

“Norton? Better. Why Norton? No, wait. Don’t tell me. Let me guess. The name of your first client or something equally as _tedious_.”

“Not quite. The name of a new lover actually; Godfrey Norton. I met him in New York; he was quite sweet actually, Godfrey… He even asked me to marry him at one point.”

Sherlock, however, seemed not to hear her as she continued to talk; he had all but frozen at the word ‘marry’, his mind struggling to comprehend the idea that someone had dared to propose to The Woman, _his_ woman, and he turned away from her slightly as he fought to get these frankly _baffling_ feelings under control. He had no idea where these feelings of possessiveness had come from; all he knew was it was taking all of his self-control not to demand she takes off that _ridiculous_ jumper, which had no doubt belonged to _him_ , _Godfrey Norton_ and give her his coat instead… Though he wasn’t sure why it mattered so much…

“I said no.”

“What?” Starting a little, jolted from his thoughts again, he reluctantly turned his gaze back on The Woman who was watching him with rather more understanding than he would have liked.

“Godfrey Norton,” she explained patiently. “I said no. In case you were wondering.”

“I wasn’t. Why should I care?”

“You tell me, Mr Holmes.”

“I _don’t_ care. You can… Marry whomsoever you like, no matter how moronic.” Forcing himself to calm down, a feat made immeasurably easier with the news that Irene _wasn’t_ engaged to the man ( _or anyone_ a traitorous voice piped up in his mind after his eyes flicked to her ringless-left hand), Sherlock took a seat in his armchair again. Smiling faintly at his words, amusement beginning to dance in her grey gaze, Irene nodded.

“Of course not…” Sherlock cleared his throat slightly, keen to change the subject.

“I believe I was promised a _present_ with your last letter, Miss Adler.” He refused to call her Norton. No. It wasn’t going to happen. Irene arched an eyebrow at him, her amusement at his statement evident.

“Isn’t my visit enough, Mr Holmes? No? My, you do know how to _flatter_ a girl… What more would you like?”

“An answer,” he replied promptly.

“An… answer…?”

“Yes. Why did you start writing to me?”

Irene gave a small shrug, her expression slightly more wary than before.

“It helped to pass the time.”

“You could have passed the time writing letters without _sending_ them. But you took the time to write them, address them and _post_ them. This wasn’t just about passing the time, Miss Adler, and I’d like to know _why_.”

Irene didn’t say anything for a few moments, simply met his gaze steadily, almost defiantly, before giving a soft sigh and glancing away.

“I’d had to give up so much of my life; my house, my friends, my _name_ … All gone, all at once. I suppose I wasn’t ready to give you up yet too. You were the last link to ‘Irene Adler’ I had left, the last person who knew I was alive… I guess I wasn’t _quite_ ready for the game to be over…” She stayed silent for a few moments before flicking her gaze to his again with a small smile. “It was hardly because you made a good pen pal after all,” she said, her tone lightly teasing. “You never did reply.”

“How could I? You never gave me an address.”

“That was rather the point. It would have spoilt the game otherwise; it wasn’t real if you couldn’t reply. Besides,” Irene continues with a smile, “You never replied to my texts; why should my letters be any different?” Sherlock nodded, expression thoughtful, his cool gaze flickering slowly over her face. Without saying a word, he got to his feet and left the room, returning a few moments later with a small bundle of envelopes, which he handed to Irene.

“What’s this?” Hesitantly accepting the letters from Sherlock, Irene gazed at the unaddressed envelopes, a faint frown furrowing her forehead. “What are these for?”

“Proving you wrong.”

Sherlock watched as Irene warily opened the first letter, her expression shifting to one of surprise as she reads the words. _His_ words.

_*_

**_Chicago, USA:_ ** _  
Let’s have dinner_

**_London, England:  
_ ** _How are we supposed to have dinner while you are in America?_

_*_

**_New York, USA:_ ** _  
Did you miss me?_

**_London, England:_ ** _  
~~An absurd and ridiculous question. Why would I miss~~_

_~~Don’t be ridic~~ _

_*_

There was a reply for each letter she’d written to him, from every stop she’d made on her journey.

_*_

**_Dhaka, Bangladesh:  
_**_What are you thinking about_ right now _? Just what is going on in that big, sexy brain of yours?_

**_London, England:  
_ ** _I am currently thinking about the rates of coagulation of arterial blood of a teetotaller verses an alcoholic, and how this proves that the murderer of the late Mr Jameson was definitely at the Wansworth Alcoholics’ Anonymous meeting last Thursday._

_~~And how I really hope you were joking when you said you were blonde, although I somehow doubt you~~ _

_*_

“You… Replied… To all of them,” Irene said eventually, glancing up at Sherlock, confusion and curiosity warring in her gaze.

“I did.”

“ _Why_?”

A question he had asked himself many times since he’d started, a couple of days after the arrival of the first letter. At first he did it to help him _think_ , in a vain attempt to get the letters (and their writer) out of his mind, but he’d been pleasantly surprised to find the rituals associated with letter writing all worked to help his thoughts flow with greater ease, much in the same way composing did. As time went on, however, he found he simply _liked_ the idea of writing to Irene.

And so his little stack of envelopes had grown.

Stretching out a hand, he helped her to her feet. Keeping his eyes fixed on hers, he slid his fingers to the underside of her wrist, resting them gently on her pulse point as he leaned in closer to whisper in her ear.

“ _Sentiment_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's it! I'm toying with the idea of a sort of... Alternate ending, as a bonus, but not sure. We'll see ^-^


End file.
